Creven Shadowshard
by Waltz-of-the-Dead
Summary: Darkness had just fallen, creeping across the brumal tundra as the sun's crimson blaze fell away before the graceful step of night. The cloaked figure kept pace with the shadows and when evening had relinquished its reign to the ice gilded night; the fleet form left the road for more open scrubland.


Authors Note:

This story is loosely based around the premise of Skyrim. All characters, places, names, magics, are mine and are subject to copyright laws. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I am open to critiques that constructive and of course I love reviews.

Creven Shadowshard

Darkness had just fallen, creeping across the brumal tundra as the sun's crimson blaze fell away before the graceful step of night. The cloaked figure kept pace with the shadows and when evening had relinquished its reign to the ice gilded night; the fleet form left the road for more open scrubland. It wasn't long before the ruins of an old city loomed before him, silhouetted against the cold light of the stars. He did not slacken his pace but easily vaulted over a low crumbling wall, and nimbly skirted along the edge. It steadily rose higher before leveling off on to a soaring archway that had once served as an entrance to the city. He crouched there and took a deep breath then cocked his head to one side. There was a scent on the air, one that he didn't like and signaled that the dead had been stirring here. He tarried there for a few more seconds his eyes scanning the overgrown pathways before he finally decided on the best route to take. He leaped from his perch a wisp of black against the night, he rolled on the cold stone to his feet. He paused again his heart hammering in his chest and listened.

He could sense that they had been here not long ago, the taste of their lingering draoidheil leaving a metallic essence in the back of his throat. Mixed with the scent of smoldering cinders was the steely smell of the enchantments that seeped from the glass bells that the mages wore at their waists. And lying in the shadows, half bathed in the mercury moonlight was the mangled corpse of an After Walker, a Draugar. Lately the dead had become restless in their graves. On his journey to Fayheath he had accidently stumbled into a shambling mass of them roaming through the forest, very far from their barrows. Their complete silence had been startling to him, and they moved with an agile fleetness that was frightening and unlike their kind. They reeked of the sickly sweet perfume of necromancy. The foxfire that burned in their eyes spoke of a far deeper, powerful draoidheil then the work of a novice. Something ancient was rekindling its self within the Cusp of the World, forces that had long been forgotten, that had long been sleeping beneath the snow were waking up and demanding attention.

He knelt to inspect the body, running his leather-clad hands along the tatters of rotten cloths. On the undead's wrist he found a necromancers seal, one that he was unfamiliar with, written in a script that he had never seen. It had been seared into the dry flesh by a white-hot iron, breaking the bracelet tattoo of warding and rest that had been etched into flesh when the poor soul had died. He was sure that there were more of their corpses scattered around the abandoned village. Where there was one Draugar there were always a dozen more.

Moving deeper into the ruins he caught a glimpse of the smoldering embers of a hastily put out campfire. He cautiously made his way to the site, and could see that a group had been encamped there for some days. There was evidence that many meals had been shared there and that a pair of guards had always kept watch just out of the light of the fire. He prowled around the edges of the camp using his keen senses to detect any sort of trickery. There had been a small band of them, half a dozen in all, one mage for every warrior. This group had been a smaller faction of the legion known as The Dagger and Bell.

There was nothing he could scavenge here, the only thing of value was the mark on the Draugar, and he was sure that Sidious, his master, already knew of it. He would report the movement of The Dagger and Bell, their numbers had swelled somewhat since the last time he had been this far north. The resurrection of the pious, holy order of warrriors and mages was something that spread like flame among dry kindling throughout all the Realms.

The proud spires of Fayheath soon rose before him, the peaks of an ancient city that was sprawled along the ridge of the Crown of Kings. Its hazy form was cloaked in mists of the evening was still far. To the eyes of the traveler the city lights were just mere sparks of fire in the night but despite this he could already taste the hot food and warm mead that would be waiting for him at The Pale Horse. A place that he had been many times before, and on those occasions, just like this one, it was to spill blood.

When day rose up from its frigid bed of frost again he would sleep, tucked away from the prying eyes and loose tongues of merchants, or anyone else following the East Drakesheath Passage. If he continued this way until sunrise he would reach the city's gates by the next nightfall, make his kill, and leave within the falling of the next dusk. He always moved with the coming shadows of the evening, and stayed obscure during the day. He made himself to be a figure that was easily forgotten. He never dressed in the pure obsidian black that assassins were always imagined to wear. He wore dark greens in the night and cool slate grays in the daylight. Both of these hues made him obscure so that he could blend in with out the aid of any magic.

Battle mages were trained in the art of finding those who were concealed by charms and could sense even the most latent threads of a powerful spell. It was a hard skill to learn and took many decades of practice to become good enough to gaze through the thin gauze of magic at the person beneath. Not long ago the chance of meeting one of these mages was low but since the king had been slain there were always a few in every city and it was better he not provoke any attention. Any fool that wore a cloak as black as pitch made an easy target because on this mortal plain there was no such thing a pure black, that was a thing of myth something that only the deities of shadow could wear. They stood out more brightly than a silver coin in the shining sun.

Weariness meant nothing to him, the draoidheil, the spell that kept the thin silver circlet permanently fastened around his neck urged him onward. It drank the weariness from his body like a drunkard sloshed down flagons of wine. His master was eager for this to be done and have him back at the hidden sanctuary. The assassin's guild an organization that flourished for hundreds of years had grown as thin as the shadows they stalked. The coins of nobles that had once filled their coffers had given them power began to fill the pockets of their fellow rulers, fund mines for more coin, and began to fill the pockets of mercenaries. The time of assassins, of treachery, and careless blood shed wound down to a stop as trade and gold had tamed the savage nature of the Cusp. The fierce barbarians had laid aside their claymores for parchment and ink.

There was no need for a knife in the dark any more. Conflicts were settled around a table with good food, heady drink, and always the precious gold Semisses the coin of all the Realms. And the assassins had learned that the most deadly beast that roamed through the hearts and souls of men was greed. Then, times had changed again, with the death of Erlendr the Ring-giver life was once again breathed into roads were no longer as safe for an assassin as they had been in the past. The threat of civil war had awoken an old enemy of the Guilds that moved within the shroud of darkness. The Ealdor's, the law-speakers, the chieftains within the cities were restless and weary of who walked through their gates by the reveling light of the sun. When the night approached they became even more cautious and so they called upon an old ally, a guild that many thought to have died with the great kings of the past. The Dagger and Bell, an order as old as the twelve divine Gods and were the bane of those who followed the gods of darkness. They were patrolling the roads now, not just major fairways but paths that assassins and others had thought had only been known to themselves. So he chose to run through the wilderness instead of risking an encounter with fabled alliance of mages and warriors. But even out here he knew that he was not completely safe. This was tundra was still of the old world, the birthplace of draoidheil and while the cities and their once barbaric men had been tamed with leashes and collars of gold. The wilderness had remained savage and feral.

He moved with caution his armor and weapons muted by the Illusion Enchant that sealed them. He step was light and sure and he left no trace of his passing. Hoarfrost clung to his hair and his breath spilled from his mouth and hung as wisps of vapor. Moonlight and gilded starlit showed him the way. He ran until the first breath of dawn chased back the night. There was a safe place for him to sleep here out in the open, a jagged outcropping of rocks that had once been a shrine to Arthfael, the god of thanes. This image of him had been carved by skilled Elven hands from a seam of crimson marble that had been found in the outcrop. He was dressed in full armor a style that was given to all warriors who were great enough to become Thanes of their cities. Arthfael had stood vigil here for longer than anyone could remember a silent blood red guardian from the Chryselephantine Age. He was knelt down on one knee facing the rising sun, his blade was unsheathed and rested point down between his feet. His hands were clasped over the hilt, and he head was pressed in a solemn bow against the pommel stone.

The sacred place seemed to be abandoned but there were still a few worshippers who braved the journey outside the walls of Fayheath to leave offerings to the scarred god. A wreath of flowers rested at his booted feet, the hilt of a broken sword had been placed against his drawn blade as a tribute to a fallen warrior. A stone bench as intricately carved as the statue of the god had been set close to his figure. It was beneath this stone edifice that the assassin would hide himself. There was a flagstone that lifted up into a small hidden alcove a place that had once hidden the more valuable offerings to Arthfael. It was empty now the treasures long ago discovered by some enterprising thief. Like the statue it had passed from the memories of many of Arthfael's followers long ago. He decided not to hide himself right away but paused for a few moments of rest on the bench and enjoyed the last moments of night to watch the sun fully rise.

The golden light of the morning sun dyed the red stone an even darker hue catching the small rivulets of gold had been set into Arthfael's armor. It was a small quiet moment of peace that the assassin cherished. Absent-mindedly he reached up and touched the thin collar around his neck. He could feel the low pulse of majic that thrummed through it like the vibration of a cord on a lyre. The thin stripe of silver was bound to his soul like a curse. He had tried to undo the circlet many times with out his leader knowing but the result was always the same. Agony would pound down his spine with all the fury of a charging cavalry. The threads of magic were too ensnared with the essence of his of his spirit. If it were ever fully removed it would rip his soul from his body.

The assassin settled down to sleep in a rocky outcrop that lay not far from The Passage hiding himself among the stones. He wrapped his cloak around his body and wedged himself beneath the jutting edge of a rock. Before the sun had fully touched the sky he was asleep a dagger clasped loosely to his chest.


End file.
